


Pomegranate

by treacle_tartlet



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-21
Updated: 2009-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treacle_tartlet/pseuds/treacle_tartlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than a decade after the War, Draco makes a triumphant return to the wizarding world as the successful chef/owner of Pomegranate, only to have his world thrown into disorder when Harry arrives unexpectedly in the dining room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomegranate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hd_career_fair in 2009.

The pressure was starting to build, manifested as a slowly tightening knot of tension in the pit of Draco's stomach. As each new yellow order docket was added to the already loaded board, another muscle bunched across his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his back, cool by the time it reached the waistband of his black-and-white-checked trousers. He felt a thrill of savage elation and fought to suppress a grin.

It was Friday evening and the dinner rush was just kicking off. His kitchen brigade was starting to slam; hands flew, hearts pounded, muscles began to burn, and tempers to fray. Draco stood at the eight-burner stove, feet firmly planted on the black rubber floor and already beginning to ache, his quick, long-fingered hands flickering between the handles of the eight pans containing sauces and glazes in varying states of completion for dishes on four different dockets.

His hands had changed beyond recognition since his schooldays, when they were pale and elegant, immaculately manicured and soft-skinned. They were undoubtedly a cook's hands, now; strong and hard and preternaturally fast, roughened and scarred, all traces of hair burned off by the blue gas flames of the stove, the corner of his left index finger not quite grown back after being lopped off almost to the bone when he was a second-year apprentice.

His chef at the time (a psychotic with a permanent eye-twitch who had never fully recovered from his own apprenticeship under Marco Pierre White) had done to Draco exactly what Draco had just done to his own profusely bleeding first-year, who had foolishly approached Chef Malfoy with his wounded hand held aloft and asked to be taken to the hospital.

"Did you find the bit?" Draco had snarled.

"Wh...what?" the whey-faced boy had stammered. He'd wrapped a tea towel around his left hand, and it was blooming with bloody flowers.

"The fucking bit you cut off, you moron! Did you find it, or is it in my fucking mise-en-place?"

"Oh, er ..."

"Find the fucking bit, put on a fucking plaster, and finish your fucking shift. If you're still bleeding, you can go to the hospital then."

To his credit, the apprentice, Angus, had gone to the first aid box without a whimper, patched up his finger, donned a glove and gone back to his station, where he was now cutting red capsicum into julienne with a determined look on his face. Angus had already lasted longer than his predecessor, David, who had gone home in tears, never to be seen again, after Draco had kicked the oven doors shut on his arms for taking too long checking the quail entrée. Fucking softcock apprentices. Angus was the twelfth first-year Draco had hired this year. It was September. Draco shook his head. Apprentices had been made of tougher stuff when he'd started his training a decade ago.

He'd left the wizarding world after the death of Tom Riddle, his family in disgrace, his life in tatters, his friends dead or imprisoned or refusing to acknowledge him as they attempted to salvage their reputations. He had drifted aimlessly around Muggle London for a few years before being sucked, like so many other rootless young men, into the endlessly grinding mill of the city's hospitality industry.

Draco, to his initial surprise, had not been chewed up and spat out. Instead, he discovered he genuinely enjoyed the work, and this joy evolved into passion. He found that cooking was similar to potion-brewing, and that he had a similarly high level of natural aptitude for it (despite what Potter and his cronies had thought at school, Draco's Potions marks were never the product of Snape's favouritism).

The grinding physical and mental stress of working as part of a kitchen brigade gave Draco precious little time for introspection, or for mourning his losses, or indeed anything except scrambling to keep up with the pace of the more experienced chefs, mercilessly victimising anyone lower on the food chain than he was, and, after hours, flinging himself into the alcohol-and-drugs-fuelled benders the cooks seemed to use to fill in the spaces between their shifts (when normal, well-adjusted people did things like read, or garden, or do the housework, or - god forbid - sleep, but then kitchens tend to attract the unbalanced, the manic, and the downright psychotic).

It was back-breakingly hard; it was sweaty and it was all-consuming, and Draco was fucking good at it. He was, after all, a ruthless perfectionist, and an opportunistic, conniving Slytherin to the core. He worked hard and fast, he was talented, and he had no qualms whatsoever about taking advantage of anyone foolish enough to give him even half a chance.

By the time he turned thirty, he was the toast of Muggle London (to his endless amusement), with two Michelin stars under his belt, and he decided that the time was ripe for his triumphant return to the wizarding world. With much fanfare, he left Gordon Ramsey at Claridges (and even Draco had blushed when he heard the message Ramsey left on his phone after he announced his departure; honestly, the man could swear for Great Britain in the Olympics!), taking the best staff and a lucrative group of loyal customers, and opened Pomegranate.

'Pom', as its foolishly wealthy and desperately hip clientele called it, was ostensibly a Muggle establishment, although the staff was pretty evenly split between magical and non-magical employees. Draco had overseen the design and renovation himself, after firing (with extreme prejudice) the first three interior designers he'd hired, for making foolish suggestions about orange feature walls, polished concrete floors, stainless steel outside the kitchen, and gigantic wrought-iron-and-mirror installations.

Eventually he'd recruited Pansy, who, despite being shacked up in an artist's loft with Luna Lovegood, at least understood Draco's vision for his dining room. So he got his understated, old-fashioned elegance, all thick, bottle-green carpet, vintage ivory and gold wallpaper, leather upholstery, starched and dazzlingly white linen, art deco brass light fittings, and a long, polished mahogany bar. The crowning glory (quite literally) was the pressed-tin ceiling; after it had been installed and painted, Draco had cricked his neck standing and staring at it. The dining room made Draco's heart soar every time he set foot in it.

Although Draco had hired a wizarding security firm to put in place a set of wards that prevented any magical activity in the foyer, dining room, and amenities, he had also commissioned a suite of rooms at the end of the corridor that housed the cloak room and toilets. On the door was a simple sign; a single black diagonal line on a white disc, which the odd Muggle who strayed too far down the hall inevitably (because it was enchanted to appear so) mistook merely to mean that the room beyond was out-of-bounds.

To a wizard's eye, it was clearly a wand. Behind the door was a spacious, well-appointed room, the dominating feature of which was the row of six fireplaces set against the left wall, each of which had a hand-blown glass bowl of Floo powder sitting in its mantelshelf.

Draco had taken the same pains with this part of the establishment that he had with the rest of his restaurant; here was the same lush, dark green carpet (a nightmare to keep clean with the Floo fireplaces, but after all, if one was forced to pay house-elves nowadays, one might as well keep them busy, no?), teamed with ivory walls and elegant pressed-tin egg-and-dart cornices, and brass wall-sconce light fittings. The fireplaces themselves were tiled in dark green, patterned with art deco lilies and trimmed with dark wood. Through an arched doorway to the right was another large room for wizards who preferred to Apparate. In this room there also stood a cabinet with stained glass doors, the shelves of which were stocked with an assortment of random, everyday objects that could be used as Portkeys.

Muggle London had flocked to Pomegranate in the wake of the media furore caused by Draco's defection from the Ramsey stable, eager to see what the wunderkind was capable of when left to his own devices (and perhaps to witness his downfall). Wizarding London had also flocked to Pomegranate, alerted by the discreet advertising Draco had commissioned in The Daily Prophet and drawn there by curiosity to see what the infamous (and hitherto presumed vanished-for-good) Draco Malfoy had made of himself during his twelve-year exile. They came back, and brought their friends, their colleagues, their prospective parents-in-law, or anybody else they wished to impress, because Pomegranate truly was something special. Draco had spent months designing a menu that was, for lack of a better word, perfect. Perfectly balanced, perfectly proportioned, perfectly harmonised, perfectly beautiful, perfectly delicious. Draco used only the best (and generally the most costly) produce he could obtain, and spared no expense in gathering his ingredients from the most exotic locations; black truffles from Perigord (but of course), pomegranates (for the signature salad) grown in the shimmering heat of Tunisia, leatherwood honey from Tasmania.

The kitchen was also a thing of beauty, but with a completely different aesthetic to the restrained elegance of the public rooms. Its beauty lay in its stark simplicity; white walls, black rubber floor, gleaming steel work-surfaces, everything polished and cold, and all of it overlooked by Draco's sauté station.

There was the monolithic eight burner stove with its double-door oven underneath it (and oh, the number of apprentices and commis chefs Draco had kicked out of the way as they scrabbled to load or unload that oven when he needed to attend to the stove), and next to it the grill, manned by Draco's grill chef, Christophe, a man with a truly awe-inspiring gift for his job and who worked like a machine no matter how busy or hot his station became. Draco secretly adored him, and the only the fact the Christophe was prodigiously ugly (and reputedly had sexual proclivities that made even Draco, a veteran of the Slytherin dormitory debaucheries, faintly queasy) prevented Draco from asking Christophe to marry him. The electronic docket printer sat on the bench next to the stove, spitting out its yellow order slips, which Draco then called out to his brigade before jamming the slip onto docket rack on the wall.

Draco, in addition to calling the orders, performed the role of saucier; he made all the sauces (as well as the sauté dishes) and consequently finished off each dish before it went out into the dining room. Except for the dessert section, which was why he was currently bellowing at his patissier, Paul. Draco had intercepted the desserts for table nine, and was holding the offending plate (honey panacotta, silky and subtle, accompanied by four delicate slices of ruby-red poached quince instead of the regulation three) while Paul quailed at his station and the rest of the kitchen tucked their heads down and worked even harder.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Um ..."

"Four! Why the fuck are there four slices of quince on this fucking plate?"

"Um, I just ..."

"Shut the fuck up, it was a rhetorical question!"

"I ..." Paul looked as though he was about to be sick. Without further ado, Draco sent the plate sailing across the kitchen. Paul ducked, an important skill to have when working with Chef Malfoy and one he'd had time to perfect (having survived two and a half years on Draco's brigade). The plate hit the wall and shattered, globs of panacotta sliding slowly down to puddle on the floor with the mangled quince slices. Paul was blushing furiously and staring at his fidgeting hands.

"Fucking do it again!"

It was at that moment Blaise entered, to bring his tidings from the floor. He had been working with Draco for almost five years, surviving a brief fling and a stint at Claridges. With his faultless clothing and arrestingly contrasting waist-length, pencil-thin, immaculately cared-for dreadlocks, he gave the restaurant, and, by proxy, its clientele, a sense of edginess. He - and his hair - was now Pomegranate's maître d', and in the three years they'd been open he'd proved himself to be very, very good at his job. He ruled the floor staff with a soft-spoken menace (much more appropriate to the dining room than Draco's swearing-and-throwing-things method), he was excellent at staggering bookings and timing the taking of orders, and at smoothing over fuck-ups, and he always knew what was going on in the dining room. What he had come to tell Draco tonight was that they had just seated some interesting guests.

"There's a critic on the floor, Draco," he murmured. "from the Prophet, and I'm pretty sure she's sitting at table eight."

"Pretty sure?" Draco didn't look up from the stove, his hands in constant motion as he tended to the eight pans bubbling on the burners and his eyes occasionally flicking up to scan the docket board.

"Doing my bloody best, you know how secretive these fuckers can be. We won't know for sure until the end of the meal, when they'll reveal their identity and probably expect to get comped. Oh, and I thought you'd like to know that Granger's arrived for her booking, but her second isn't Weasley. It's Potter. They're on table three."

Draco froze, but only for a moment. Nobody in the kitchen noticed except Blaise, who knew better than to mention it. Draco resumed working. Blaise hovered, waiting for his orders.

A fucking critic and Harry fucking Potter on the same evening. Never rains but it pours, as the Muggles say. Draco was unsure whether he was more worried about the critic and the fact that he was working towards his third Michelin star, or about the violently ambivalent feelings Harry Potter still stirred up in him after all these years. All these years of hard work, and pain, and exhaustion. All the accolades, and celebrity patrons, and money, and triumph, and Harry Potter still made him want to smile and howl and laugh and beg for ... something he refused to acknowledge he needed. He hurriedly quashed the thought before it was fully formed. Draco had grown so accustomed to controlling every aspect of his life that he found this conflict profoundly disquieting. Well, fuck Harry Potter.

"Take care of the critic, Blaise. Fucking perfect everything, and if she gets corked wine tell Alain I'll have his head on a pike."

Blaise could afford a smirk at that, because he knew how much Draco needed him. He also knew when he'd been dismissed, and he beat a hasty retreat from the brightly lit, noisy kitchen to the soothing quiet of the dining room.

Draco stared at the docket board, which already fluttered with yellow order slips. It was the best method he'd ever found for calming down; any niggling anxieties were swept before the organising principle of his brain as it sorted through the dockets, fitting preparation, cooking, and plating times together, packing the maximum amount of work into each minute, and firing off orders until he had the whole kitchen scrambling. Draco relaxed into the pounding, headlong rush of another Friday night dinner service, and kept himself amused by placing his dirty pans on top of the grill so the dishwashers burned their hands if they took too long collecting them.

 

~o~O~o~

 

It was several hours before the rush slowed, but eventually Draco plated his last meal and sent it out. Considering the news Draco had received from Blaise, the night had gone extraordinarily well. He hadn't fired anybody, and so far no-one had cried, and that was always a good sign. Despite his ferocious reputation, Draco very much preferred it when he could get through a shift without losing his temper.

He dearly loved nights when everything worked as it should. A kitchen brigade working well is a marvellous thing to behold; a complex, super-heated, sharp-edged dance in which all the performers know the rhythm and can fit their individual steps together and the whole kitchen hums. For its first two years the Pomegranate kitchen had worked like that, but a series of staff changes combined with the increasing pressure on Draco to live up to his own celebrity (not to mention the demands of those accursed Michelin stars) had produced the toxic atmosphere that pervaded the kitchen on most busy nights now. The apprentice conveyer-belt hadn't helped; it was nearly impossible to build a team that knew each other well enough to work like a single organism if there was a constant stream of staff signing up and dropping out (and despite Draco's increasingly frequent assertions to the contrary, the apprentices were an important part of the organism). Discontent reigned, and Draco could feel the core of his brigade starting to crack.

Blaise hadn't managed to ascertain exactly which customer at table eight was The Daily Prophet's restaurant critic, but the whole table had enjoyed exemplary service and flawless meals and were now (Blaise assured him) chatting, relaxed and replete, over coffee. Draco shot Christophe a look that told the grill man he was in charge of the kitchen while Draco left to take a turn about the dining room. It always felt awkward and contrived, this swanning through the dining in a clean, monogrammed uniform, smiling and shaking hands as though he hadn't just spent the last few hours hustling and swearing with sweat trickling under the waistband of his trousers and into his arse-crack.

It did, however, make the diners feel important and coddled and it practically guaranteed the base of loyal, repeat customers who kept any restaurant going after the novelty value had worn off and the trend-junkies had moved on to the Next Big Thing. Pomegranate was definitely not the Next Big Thing anymore; it was well on its way to becoming a Classic (three years is a long time in the restaurant business, even in a city as steeped in history as London).

Draco went out to the coolroom and stripped off his sweaty, stained jacket as he went. He stood, steaming, in the chilled air until his heart rate had slowed down a bit, then went to the office to get rid of his stinking T-shirt and put on the immaculately starched, eye-achingly bright white jacket he always brought to work for this stage of the evening.

The Grand Tour, he thought mockingly, as he made his way back though the kitchen and out into the dining room with his most charming smile fixed firmly in place, and circled the room, shaking hands, accepting praise, chatting with regulars, and ensuring that everyone went away shaking their heads in disbelief at the rumours of his violent temper.

Tonight, he left the critic's table until last (if one didn't count Potter, but Draco wasn't sure he had the courage to try his charm on the Hero of the Wizarding World). He smiled until his face ached, inquired as to how they'd enjoyed their meals, accepted Great Aunt Milly's blackcurrant fool recipe while grinding his molars, and eventually made good his escape, satisfied that he'd be reading a glowing review in the Prophet on Sunday morning.

His fatal mistake was to look up on his way back to the kitchen. Harry Potter's gaze brought him to a standstill. The last fifteen years had improved Potter no end. He'd replaced his ugly old glasses with a wire-rimmed pair, so Draco was able to appreciate for the first time how startlingly beautiful his eyes were. His hair was still irredeemably dishevelled, dark and tumbling over his forehead, ending in licking curls at his collar. There was no more boyish roundness to Potter's face, either, but the crow's-feet and the indented frown line between his eyebrows made him look serious and warm and ... quite sexy. Draco had know all this, in an academic sense, from his occasional perusal of The Daily Prophet (emphatically not his obsessive scouring of its pages for mention of Potter's name), but it was a different matter entirely to be confronted with it in his own restaurant.

Draco, appalled by the tack his mind was taking, realised he'd been staring for far too long to just shrug and walk away. He hesitated another moment on the balls of his feet, then walked to the table. There was an unreadable expression in Harry's eyes as he gestured to the empty chair opposite him, and Draco unwillingly noticed how rough and weathered his hands were. They looked well-used, and made Draco wonder what he actually did for a living. The Prophet reported regularly about his charity work, and his consulting with the Auror Department, and his guest lecturing on Defence Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts. The Quibbler claimed that he was variously a vampire, a part-Veela, living with mer-folk, or that he had in fact died several years ago and had been replaced by a look-alike by the name of Billy Shears.

"Hermione had to go home, one of the kids is sick." Harry said by way of explanation for the empty seat opposite him. Draco sat down, his heart suddenly pounding and his body awash with adrenalin. Blaise stood, ever watchful, by the bar.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Draco hadn't meant to snarl, but it was his default tone and sitting so close to Harry had made him too jittery for charm and subtlety. Harry looked at him evenly, his expression guarded. Draco could see the muscles of his jaw tightening. Oh, dear.

"Pretty much everyone I know has told me how good your restaurant is, and curiosity finally got the better of me. It's brilliant," said Harry, gazing around before turning his attention back to Draco with a slight smile, "and beautiful."

Draco (to his horror) felt his heart flutter. Was the great and powerful Harry Potter flirting? With him, enfant terrible and toque-wearing prodigal son? Draco caught the treacherous flicker of hope and squashed it. If Potter was flirting, he was surely taking the piss.

"Well, we are flattered, of course, that the Saviour has graced us with his presence. I do hope your meal was up to standard?" Draco cursed himself for sounding so needy. Fucking Potter. How was it he was still able to make Draco feel inadequate and desperate for approval? Sitting there in Draco's lovely dining room, fucking smiling, for fuck's sake!

"It was technically brilliant. I mean, I know it probably doesn't mean much coming from me, but I thought it was pretty much perfect."

There was that fucking smile again, curling the corners of Potter's mobile, expressive mouth and lighting up his eyes. He fiddling with his water glass, and Draco had to fight the urge to reach out and touch his hand. Draco's heart lurched uncomfortably. He wanted, desperately, to smile back, to thank Harry, to ask him to stay for a drink. Instead, what came out of his mouth was: "You're right, it doesn't mean much. Unlike the rest of the wizarding world I'm not interested in your opinion on anything, Potter, least of all your opinion regarding my food. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Draco stood up so quickly he almost knocked the chair over backwards. He was still shaking when he reached the safety of the kitchen, and soothed his nerves by sending the kitchenhands out the back to scrub the mould out of the bins with bleach. As the rest of the brigade packed down and cleaned the kitchen, Draco stood by the cooling grill and wondered what the fuck had just happened. He was wealthy and successful, feared and adored, and thirty-three years old, yet in waltzed Harry bloody Potter with his sexy smile, and his niceness, and his flirting, and Draco had instantly reverted to behaving like an insecure seventeen year old with a crush on a boy who despised him.

"Fuck!" The exclamation made everyone in the kitchen jump, which Draco usually found gratifying but which tonight completely failed to lighten his mood. He stomped out, scattering terrified kitchenhands on his way out the door.

At least there was the Prophet's Sunday review to look forward to.

 

~o~O~o~

 

POMEGRANATE: AN EVENING WITH GOETHE

 

To paraphrase Goethe, it would be odd if our old friends were without quirks. And so when my oldest and dearest expressed a desire to eat at Pomegranate, I was more than happy to indulge her.

As events progressed, the aphorism was especially apt, as the evening took on the flavour of German wizardry's greatest author. After all, chef and owner Draco Malfoy has made such a phenomenal return to the wizarding world in the last three years that one could suspect him of having made a Faustian bargain.

Pomegranate, first reviewed in these pages shortly after its opening, has a restrained Romantic splendour that has aged extremely well. The graceful opulence comes close to intimidating with its excellent taste, or, as my quirky friend put it, 'Are we well dressed enough to be in this room?' The maître d' dispelled any qualms, seating us smoothly with what appeared to be genuine warmth and welcome.

A neat cocktail and wine list appeared at the same time as the substantial vellum-bound menu. Both were compelling reading, but the former won us over to begin with and we were rewarded with sublimely judged treats from the bar, where Ariadne Postlethwaite's small but sophisticated cocktail menu and excellent (though not inexpensive) range of liquors conspire to make the diner, if not wholly at ease, at least more relaxed with the damage that is about to be done to his or her Gringotts' balance.

The wine list is revisited on the menu, and it must be said that sommelier Alain Dufresne has stocked a cellar that takes one's breath away, both in appreciation of its sympathy with the food and awe at the prices.

The menu itself is Pomegranate's magnum opus. Balanced with a potion master's exact touch, it contains precisely correct proportions of game, red meat, poultry and vegetarian dishes, each promising superlative technical accomplishment. At the conclusion of reading, my quirky friend declared that we may as well leave now, since the descriptions had more that satisfied her appetite.

I was tempted to agree, the seductive visions called up by such a well-designed menu are rarely satisfied in the flesh, as it were. And yet, to my surprise, each dish that was presented to us was exactly as it was described. Our oyster entrée comprised half a dozen fat, creamy bi-valves topped with a chilli, lime and vodka salsa. The piquant salsa lifted the oysters without overpowering them, and each mollusc seemingly measured to the Continental gram in a bid to calculate the ideal amount of salsa to hide its nudity.

Similarly, the flame-grilled wagyu steak came within a degree of having more char than strictly necessary, but its accompanying beetroot rosti and bitey wholegrain mustard and bacon sauce were flawlessly tasty.

For vegetarians, the risotto-stuffed zucchini flowers (Merlin knows where Malfoy sourced them at this time of year), fried in an ethereally light tempura batter and teamed with a salad scattered with the bright jewels of pomegranate seeds were a garden medley that hinted at sunshine and the most splendid of providores.

Around us, more than half the dining room was made up of Muggle tables, all expressing orgiastic delight at the splendours placed before them, like Faust beholding Marguerite for the first time.

My quirky friend and I could understand their delight, and yet were not quite able to share it. From the desserts on offer we sampled the candied cumquat sponge pudding with orange custard and the honey panacotta with poached quince, both of which were perfectly executed, delicious, and presented with an almost architectural precision.

The panacotta quivered like a virgin seduced with Mephistopholean aid, and the three slices of glistening quince that surrounded it were splendidly ruby and yielding. And yet, why three? Why not a generous four? Or even five? Why tempt the palate and leave it unsatisfied?

Certainly three looked best on the plate, but would it have killed Malfoy or his kitchen to sacrifice precision for abundance? Every dish was mathematical in its contrived perfection, yet, as Goethe reminds us, certain flaws are necessary for the whole. Like Malfoy himself, Pomegranate is beautiful, but it has no soul.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Draco was so angry that he cast Incendio at his first two copies of the paper. Contrived? FUCKING SOULLESS?

Coffee ran down the wall of Draco's living room, his favourite cup reduced to scattered shards on the carpet. Sunday was usually the day he spent traipsing around vendors and suppliers, using a combination of money, celebrity, and threats to secure the best produce for the restaurant, but after a row with his fishmonger that ended in an attempt to shove an Atlantic salmon where it definitely wouldn't fit, he gave it up as a bad joke.

He phoned Christophe and (head spinning as he relinquished control over the ordering, just look what a five minute conversation with bloody Potter had reduced him to!) delegated the Sunday provisioning to him. After ricocheting around his house waving the paper, shouting, and breaking things for a few hours, and writing a series of increasingly abusive and unhinged letters to the Prophet's food critic (which he thankfully refrained from handing over to his owl), Draco donned chequered trousers and a white T-shirt and stomped down to the restaurant, intending to indulge in his second favourite method of relaxation, Pomegranate being closed on Sundays and his favourite method therefore being unavailable.

When he arrived, the sight of the dining room didn't soothe him quite as much as it usually did. What did lift his spirits was the fact that Blaise was standing behind the bar with a sliced lime and a bottle of Tanqueray, mixing brutally strong gin and tonics despite the fact that it was only 3pm.

"You read it, then?" Draco snarled. Blaise nodded silently and pushed one of the highball glasses across the bar to him.

"Fucking arsehole. Fucking cowardly bastard anonymous critic! If she had a spine she'd put her fucking name to her words!" Draco downed half his drink in one vehement slurp, barely wincing at the floral burn of the gin.

Blaise smirked and sipped his own drink before answering. "Perhaps she's scared of having the shit kicked out of her by enraged chefs?"

Draco considered this while finishing his drink. "No, that's not it. This is the first bad review of hers I've ever read. It's bloody personal. ARSEHOLE!" Draco threw the empty glass, and it shattered on the floor behind the bar. Blaise calmly set out a new one and poured another gin and tonic.

"It's not that bad, Draco, the review says some great things about the restaurant. Anyway, why are you so sure it's a witch?"

"Of course it's a witch, she calls me beautiful. Just before she calls me soulless, if you remember."

"I suspect lots of men have called you that." Blaise almost looked regretful, but he was far too poised to let it flicker across his face for more than the briefest moment. In any case, Draco was too deeply involved in his own outrage to notice.

"Oh, fuck off, Blaise. It is that fucking bad; it's the closest we've ever come to being panned. And as for this fucker, whether it's a bloke or a bird, if I ever find out who they are I'll have their guts for garters."

Draco kept ranting for more than an hour, by which time Blaise had secured another copy of the Prophet so they could analyse it (inasmuch as their now rather tipsy brains were capable of analysis) for clues to the critic's identity.

"Still reckon it's a bloke, Blaise?"

"Uh huh. And I reckon it's someone we went to school with."

"Gosh, that fucking narrows it down, doesn't it? Most of the wizards in the country went to our school, you tit!"

"Yeah, no, someone from our year. The Potions thing, you know? Like this prick knows that was your best subject. Plus, he has it in for you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"That you were a shit and everyone hated you. Oh, but that wasn't really just our year, was it?" Blaise giggled into his drink, snorking gin and tonic all over the bar.

Draco bared his teeth. "Oh, who fucking cares? It's only the bloody Prophet; the Muggles think I'm god's gift to gastronomy. And who the fuck uses little treacle tarts as a scoring system, how can anyone be expected to take it seriously ..."

Draco's diatribe trailed off as he remembered watching the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall during hundreds of school dinners, and noting (know one's enemies, and all that; though he may have found it painfully arousing watching Potter put things in his mouth that was certainly not the reason he kept watching) that Harry Potter always ate treacle tart when it was on offer. Potter. Fucking Potter! Potter had called him beautiful, too, sort of. He looked up at Blaise.

"It's Potter!"

Blaise considered this for quite some time, staring off into the middle distance, then giggled. "It can't be. Where would Potter have learned to write using long words?"

This was a fair point, and it had Draco stumped before the answer percolated through his gin-pickled brain. "Granger," he hissed, and Blaise nodded sagely.

"She does know many big words, bloody smartarse ..."

Draco wasn't really paying attention. It made complete sense. Potter was at Pomegranate on Friday night, and Granger had been with him. Potter had sat in the dining room, being all quiet and sexy, with his untidy hair and his smiling eyes and his warm, faintly spicy smell ... Draco found himself lost for a moment in this reverie, before a glance at the bar brought the newspaper and Potter's treachery back to his attention. All the pieces fitted together; Potter had been in the right place at the right time, he'd called the food technically perfect and Draco beautiful. He was famously protective of his privacy. And then there were those stupid bloody tarts he used to rate the restaurants he reviewed. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. But Potter had been so bloody nice, and he'd smiled and flirted a bit! Oh. Until Draco had snarled at him and stomped off in a huff. Shit.

In true Malfoy fashion, this realisation did not kindle even a spark of remorse in Draco; instead it ignited an inferno of indignation. Potter had obviously written the shitty review because Draco had knocked back his advances! Just as obvious, in Draco's alcohol-addled mind, was the solution: he would have to shag Potter to get a good review.

In the dim recesses of Draco's mind, a voice muttered that tracking down Potter and trying to sleep with him was a Very Bad Idea, one that would end either in an argument and possibly some sort of undignified brawl, or (if by some strange twist of fate Potter didn't immediately hex Draco into the middle of next week), in embarrassingly awkward, drunken sex the was unlikely to leave Potter in the right frame of mind for writing a good review of Draco's restaurant (or his sexual prowess, for that matter). This voice, whose disparaging tones reminded Draco unsettlingly of Professor Snape, quite often provided input like this at times of crisis, and this was the first time Draco had ever ignored it. He brushed aside Snape's murmured objections, becoming more convinced by the minute that his brilliant plan would work.

If Blaise had been capable of Legilimency at this point, he would probably have suggested that Draco's brilliant plan owed more to the gin, and to the torch he'd been carrying for Harry since time out of mind, than to logic. Alas, Blaise had to concentrate on raising his glass to his lips without slopping gin and tonic everywhere, so Legilimency, and therefore providing a voice of reason, were beyond him.

There was still the problem of finding Harry. Draco left Blaise at the bar and staggered to the Wizard Rooms, where he scattered Floo powder all over the carpet before pronouncing an address with exaggerated care and vanishing into the billowing flames.

Seconds later he fell gracelessly out onto the hearth of the studio where Pansy lived with Luna. Pansy, who would sympathise over the horrible review and congratulate Draco on his brilliance at deducing the identity of the critic. Pansy, who when she wasn't moonlighting as an interior design consultant, wrote the gossip column for The Daily Prophet and knew everything about everyone. She was wrapped in a scarlet silk kimono and looked less than thrilled about Draco's sudden appearance, covered in soot, and pissed as a newt into the bargain. She sighed, and thanked Merlin that Luna was out.

"Pansy! Pans, Pans, Pans, where's Potter?" Pansy, who was quite clever and had known Draco for a long, long time, understood this to mean that Draco had read the review, worked out who wrote it, and was out for revenge. Out for something, anyway. She smirked.

"Well, he's hardly likely to be here, Draco."

"No, that's not ... where is he, though?"

"Oh, rumour has it that he stays in room four at the Leaky Cauldron when he's in town ..."

Pansy got no further before Draco dug a handful of Floo powder out of his pocket and lunged back into the fireplace, shouting, "The Leaky Cauldron!" in an unnecessarily loud voice.

In her empty (and now soot-smudged) living room, Pansy sighed again, accustomed by now to Draco's drunken foolishness and confident that the man who'd defeated Tom Riddle could hold his own against one pissed chef. She smiled wickedly at the thought of which part of his own Harry Potter might like to hold against Draco. Really, it would do them both good; she was tired of Harry moping about the newspaper office every weekend looking dejected, and Draco was clearly in desperate need of a thorough shagging. Besides, they'd spent years pussy-footing about their pathetically obvious attraction to each other. Pansy shook her head and went back to her book.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Five minutes later, Draco was leaning against the doorframe of room four at the Leaky Cauldron, hammering on the door. He'd wiped most of the soot off his face, but his T-shirt and trousers were rumpled and smudged, his hair was a tousled mess, and he smelled of gin. From within the room came a muffled swearing and the thump of footsteps, then Harry flung open the door, wearing only a pair of dark blue jeans and a cross expression. Without the support of the door, Draco sagged halfway into the room before righting himself.

Harry backed away to admit his visitor and shut the door behind him, watching cautiously as Draco stood, swaying slightly, in the middle of the room. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco was grateful for the quantity of Tanqueray circulating in his veins, because surely he'd never be able to do this sober, no matter what the degree of self-interest involved. No matter how hot Potter looked without shirt on, with his goldy-brown skin, and dark pink nipples, which peeked out of whorls of black hair that trailed down over his toned belly before disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. Draco realised that he was staring again. His heart pounded erratically as he dragged his gaze away from the front of Harry's jeans and looked him in the eye.

"I'm sorry I was such an arse the other night, Potter."

The other man looked unimpressed. Did he not appreciate being the first person to whom Draco had apologised in almost a decade?

"And you needed to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon to tell me this?"

"S'not the middle of the affernoon ... "

"But that's when you must have started, to be in this state by five."

Draco closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"I'm not brave enough to do this sober."

"Do what?"

"Kiss you." Draco closed the gap between them, and did. He rubbed his lips against Harry's until the other man's mouth opened, then pressed deeper, and oh, god, Harry Potter's mouth was hot and wet and delicious, better than Draco had ever imagined (and he'd imagined it quite a lot, over the years).

When Harry broke the kiss he was breathing rapidly, his wide eyes filled with desire and distrust in equal measure. "Why do you want to kiss me? You hate me, Malfoy, remember?"

"Don't hate you," murmured Draco, pressing another kiss to Harry's reluctant mouth. Harry was having none of it, and took a step back, holding Draco at arm's length. His lips were slightly parted and he was breathing rapidly.

"I really am sorry. I was a prick, and I know it's no excuse, but it was a bit of a shock, seeing you there, and when you flirted I thought you were having me on, and ... "

"Why would you think I was having you on?" Harry looked desperately uncertain, his fists clenched at his sides and his expression so suffused with need that it was all Draco could do not to fling himself at the other man.

"Why ...? Because you loathed me at school, and then all of a sudden you were sitting in my restaurant, smiling and being nice and it was weird!" Draco was aware that his voice was a tad louder than it needed to be, but he was trying to get his point across.

"I never loathed you at school, you idiot! I was obsessed with you! Merlin, I would have snogged you a hundred times over if I'd thought you wouldn't have hexed me into oblivion!" Harry's voice was raised as well now, and his hands, rather than being white-knuckled and still, were gesticulating wildly.

"Well, I wouldn't have, okay?" shouted Draco.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Harry stepped forwards and, cupping Draco's face in his hands, pulled him close and kissed him. Harry's mouth was hot and insistent. The blissful kiss lasted only seconds before Harry jerked away again, covering his eyes with one hand. Draco moaned with disappointment.

"God, Malfoy, I can't do this!"

"What?"

"This! I can't do this; you're drunk, and I can't take advantage of you ..."

Draco was gobsmacked. Bloody Gryffindors and their bloody Gryffindor morals! It was so absurd he couldn't help but laugh.

"Potter, you twit, I've wanted to shag you since fifth year! Believe me, drunk or not, you couldn't possibly take advantage of me."

Whether it was the admission of how long he'd wanted Potter, or the fact that he'd been able to pronounce 'advantage' on his first attempt, it had the desired result. Potter didn't resist when Draco kissed him again, and seemed to warm to the idea gratifyingly quickly, holding Draco close with a hand on the back of his neck and snogging him thoroughly.

Draco, dizzy with gin and lust, barely noticed being pulled towards the bed. He was aware, and very appreciative of, Harry's weight pressing him down onto the mattress; of the clean, faintly spicy smell of Harry's skin; and of the hard length of Harry's erection as it rubbed against his own through the few layers of cloth that separated them. Draco groaned and ran his hands down Harry's naked back, squeezing his denim-clad arse and making Harry grind against him. The friction was delicious.

Harry rolled onto his side and began pulling Draco's T-shirt up; rough fingers grazed his hot, flushed skin, making him shudder and squirm. The wriggling helped Harry drag the T-shirt over Draco's head, and they both gasped as they pressed their bare torsos together, Harry's sun-kissed skin a sharp contrast against Draco's, which was moon-pale after years of semi-nocturnal existence. Harry untied the drawstring of Draco's trousers and slipped his thumbs under the waistband, shoving them down over Draco's hips, and sliding down the bed.

"Oh, fuck!" Draco gasped as Harry's warm breath ghosted over the sensitive head of his cock. Harry chuckled and murmured, "You have such a filthy mouth, Malfoy."

Draco was incapable of reply, since at that moment Harry placed a hot, wet kiss on the tip of Draco's cock and then took most of the throbbing length deep into his mouth. Draco arched his back and cried out at the incredibly slick, sucking heat that engulfed him. He wondered if perhaps he was imagining this, if maybe he'd stayed at Pomegranate with Blaise and was now leglessly drunk and passed out at the bar dreaming that Harry Potter was sucking him off. He reached down. The thick, unruly hair felt real enough as it tangled around his fingers, and that mouth, oh, that mouth certainly felt real as it bobbed back and forth, back and forth, and stopped.

Stopped? Draco whimpered as Harry moved back up the bed, wriggling out of his jeans and pants to reveal a long, thick cock that reared out of a bed of coarse black curls.

Harry rolled onto his back, pulling Draco on top of him. "Merlin, Malfoy, fuck me. Please, fuck me."

Draco felt giddy from the lack of blood in his brain, and grateful again for the gin, because if he'd been sober with Harry beneath him begging to be fucked, Draco strongly suspected he would have come then and there.

Harry twisted away from him, leaning over the side of the bed to rummage in a backpack on the floor. Draco lay and watched him, admiring the way his muscles shifted and stretched beneath his skin. He noticed that Harry had three small moles in a triangle just under his right shoulder blade. The other man levered himself back onto the bed, a tube of lubricant held triumphantly in one hand. Their fingers brushed together as he handed it to Draco, and Harry looked at Draco, and smiled. It was only for a moment, but in that moment Draco's heart fluttered; suddenly all he wanted to do was curl up with this strange, familiar man and talk to him, and tell him that he'd always loved him. The Snape-voice was back, telling Draco that fucking Harry under these circumstances was a disastrous course of action that would end badly for all concerned; that he was dooming any chance he had at something more serious with Harry for the sake of getting his end away in a drunken one night stand.

Harry derailed his train of thought by rocking his hips underneath Draco's. The sensation of their erections rubbing against each other drove Snape's voice of reason out of his head. Draco knelt up on the bed between Harry's thighs and squeezed too much lube onto his fingers. Some of it dripped onto the counterpane, but he managed to get most of it onto his achingly hard prick. Propping himself up on one hand, he pushed Harry's legs further apart and slid one finger behind Harry's heavy, tight balls to stroke his furled and twitching arsehole. Harry gasped and squirmed, pressing himself against the teasing finger, his breathing ragged as he begged Draco again to fuck him.

Draco looked down at Harry with something akin to wonderment as he guided his cock to the other man's slick opening and slowly pushed himself inside. Harry whimpered and tightened up at the pain, but Draco was too drunk and too horny to stop and make it easier for him. He thrust deeper and deeper, until he was buried completely in the breathtakingly tight, wet heat of Harry's arse. He withdrew a little way and thrust in again. And again. And again. He noticed, vaguely, that Harry's gasps of discomfort turned into moans of pleasure, but he was far more aware of the orgasm that was gradually but inevitably building up behind his balls. He groaned and shifted his position slightly to allow for deeper penetration, and it must have brought him into contact with Harry's prostate because suddenly Harry was writhing and crying out each time Draco filled him, raising his hips eagerly to match Draco's thrusts. Harry reached one hand between them and started stroking his own neglected cock with a quick, hard rhythm. He threw his head back on the pillow, his eyes rolling with pleasure.

The sight and sound of Harry Potter, arched beneath him, moaning and sighing in such a delightfully wanton manner, brought Draco undone. With two more brutally hard thrusts into Harry's clenching body, Draco's orgasm came crashing down over him. He cried out and shuddered, drowning in pleasure, then collapsed, sweaty and sticky and exhausted, dimly aware through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss that Harry was finishing himself off.

They lay together awkwardly, neither of them speaking, for an elastic moment that could have been half a minute or half an hour. It was the kiss that ruined it. Draco was warm and drifting, under the pleasant weight of Harry's arm, wrapped in the smell of sex and the heavy, sweet afterglow. His brain, scrambled by gin and shagging, had wandered off down that a road that lead to Draco waking up like this every morning; he smiled sleepily at visions of them cooking breakfast together, going to the launderette, fucking like this on a regular basis, arguing over china patterns ... then Harry kissed Draco's forehead and it all came crashing down.

Draco forced the ridiculous fantasy out of his head. Harry Potter didn't want a fucking relationship, he wanted to scratch an itch, to live out his teenage wank fantasy. Draco set to work convincing himself of this fact, because if Harry Potter did want a relationship with him, Draco feared that he would be powerless to resist. Draco didn't want a fucking relationship, he just wanted a good review. Relationships required time and commitment and a willingness to make yourself vulnerable, and oh, no no no. Not even with Harry Potter. Especially not with Harry Potter.

Draco sat up, disentangling himself ungently. Harry turned his head and smiled at him. Draco felt his heart constrict and had to fight a rising tide of panic. The panic was surely the only excuse for what unfolded next.

"Are you going?" Harry murmured.

"Yes, Potter, I'm going home to sleep and then I'm going to work. I have a restaurant to run, and reputation to repair after your fucking review."

Harry's eyes widened.

"You knew it was me? How did you ... why did you come here, if you knew?"

Harry looked so hurt and confused that for a second Draco forgot himself and wanted desperately to bury his head in the warm, sweet scent of Harry's neck and pull the covers up and never, ever leave. Then he remembered that he was Draco Malfoy and he didn't need anyone. Refused to need anyone. Still, the look on Harry's face forced a certain amount of honesty out of him.

"I don't know. I thought you panned the restaurant because I didn't flirt with you the other night, and that maybe if I shagged you, you'd write a better one next week. Of course, that won't work now I've told you ... fuck it ... and I was curious, and ..."

"You slept with me for a good review?" Harry looked gutted, which made Draco feel guilty. Then Harry looked angry, which made Draco feel a bit scared.

"Yes, sort of. To begin with, but ..." Draco felt that he had lost control over the conversation. He'd wanted to reject Harry and extricate himself with his ego restored, but now Harry looked hurt and pissed off and Draco just wanted to make him feel better. He started to backpedal, but the damage was done.

"Harry ..."

"Get the fuck out." Harry said softly, fists clenched in the sweaty, rumpled sheets.

"But ..."

"GET OUT!" he shouted, and Draco saw no alternative but to scramble into his clothes and leave. As he shut the door behind himself he started to shake. He felt closer to tears than he had done since the War. Instead of hailing a taxi, or just Apparating, Draco walked away from Diagon Alley. He didn't want a boyfriend, he'd never wanted a boyfriend, even on the rare occasions when he'd actually had one. They took up too much space, expected too much, demanded intimacy and Quality Time and generally made Draco want to run away screaming. And yet ... the thought of being Harry's boyfriend didn't make him feel like that. In the few brief moments they'd spent together recently (when Draco wasn't busily sabotaging everything), being with Harry had felt ... good. Good and right. Draco walked all the way home and didn't have a shower because he could still smell the ghost of Harry's scent on his skin.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Draco had fucked up badly, and he didn't know how to fix it. He stomped around Pomegranate in a foul mood (even fouler than usual, which was saying something), losing his temper and firing staff member after staff member until on Thursday afternoon, just over a week and a half after he'd left Harry at the Leaky Cauldron, Blaise dragged him into the office before service and told him to take the rest of the week off. Draco had laughed at the very idea.

"You can't get through a weekend without me," he scoffed.

"If you fire anyone else, we won't make it through the weekend regardless of whether you're here or not. Stop being a dickhead. Christophe and I can hold the fort for one weekend. I've already limited the bookings. Sort your fucking head out, Draco. I don't care what you need to do, but do it."

"This is my bloody restaurant, Blaise."

"Then act like it! Sort your shit out and start acting like the boss again instead of a petulant adolescent."

Draco was shocked. So shocked, in fact, that he had meekly taken Blaise's advice and gone home. The problem was, he had no idea what to do when he wasn't working. He spent the rest of Thursday and most of Friday sitting in his trackpants on the couch, watching Iron Chef reruns while his mind veered away from thoughts of Harry Potter's smile, and his skin, and his rough hands, and ... ah, fuck.

 

~o~O~o~

 

For the second time in a fortnight, Draco stumbled out of Pansy's fireplace. If she knew where Harry stayed when he was in London, it stood to reason that she might know where he lived (or at the very least would be able to find out).

This time, however, Pansy was at work and it was Luna Lovegood who greeted him. He apologised (what the devil had come over him, sprinkling sorries about the place like this? Clearly, Potter was a bad influence) for intruding and was about to leave when a thought occurred to him. He turned back to face Luna, and the hope on his face softened her more than the apology had. She smiled at him.

"Luna, do you know where Harry lives?"

"I do, as it happens."

Draco waited, but no further information was forthcoming.

"Please, tell me." The raw desperation in his voice would have made him blush a few weeks ago, but there was so much hanging on what Luna was or wasn't about to tell him.

"I'll give you directions, but you won't be able to use magic to get there. There's a safe place to Apparate in the nearest village, but it's a few miles from there to the house. And, Draco ... " She stood in front of him, feet bare on the floorboards, the sleeves of her paint-spattered shirt rolled up to her elbows.

Reaching up, she cupped his face in her cool, soft hands, and said, "If you upset him again, I'll cut your bollocks off."

Draco nodded, and made many promises, and gratefully accepted the slip of parchment on which Luna wrote down the directions to Riverview. He held it so tightly his knuckles went white.

He didn't even go home to change; he Apparated straight to Howling, the tiny village that was the closest outpost of civilisation to Harry's house (although applying the term 'civilisation' to Howling was a bit of a stretch). There were, as Luna had warned, no taxis to be had, and the extensive wards around Harry's home prevented approach by magic. Draco checked the directions again, and set off down the road on foot. It was after seven before he was standing at the crooked wooden gate that led through the low hedge to Riverview cottage.

He hesitated, one hand on the latch, and looked around him. Without the shifting lights and restless rumble of traffic, it seemed preternaturally still. Draco could hear the creaking of frogs down on the river and gurgling rush of the river itself as it hurried down between reedy banks on its way to the sea. A breeze muttered through the trees, and looking up he saw stars, brighter than he'd seen them since his childhood at the Manor. Beyond the gate, a cobbled path lead between beds of herbs and flowers to the two-storey red brick cottage with its green-painted front door and windows with their shutters flung open to the mellow, early-autumn evening.

Draco took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, the rubber soles of his shoes nearly soundless on the cobblestones. On the front step he paused, shaking and suddenly fighting an overwhelming urge to run away, or possibly vomit. He had no idea what he was going to say, but his hand moved of its own accord to pull the bell-rope, and then it was too late for second thoughts because he heard a muffled shout, and the soft thud of footsteps coming down the hall, and the rattle of the latch.

The door swung inwards, revealing Harry dressed in jeans and a worn pinwale shirt, his open, pleasant expression clouding as soon as he saw who was standing on his doorstep. That he had the power to make another person look so hurt and mistrustful would ordinarily have warmed the cockles of Draco's heart, but it was Harry, and the look on his face only served to deepen Draco's misery.

Harry looked him up and down, taking in the trackpants, the faded Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt, and the pale hair that needed a wash. Draco fervently wished he'd taken the time to shower and put on some decent clothes before he'd left London, but at the time all he could think of was getting here. Despite Harry's obvious displeasure, Draco was still glad to be standing on that doorstep.

The top button was missing from Harry's shirt, so Draco could see the dip at the center of his collarbone. Messy, dark hair fell in waves down to his collar. Draco wanted, with breathtaking intensity, to brush the hair away and kiss Harry's throat, to feel his heartbeat against his lips and taste his skin. What he wanted even more was for Harry to smile at him the way he had the night he'd come to Pomegranate.

Harry moved to block the door, and crossed his arms. "How did you find my house?" His voice was quiet and cool, but behind his glasses his eyes smouldered with anger ... and something ...

"Luna gave me directions."

Harry's frown deepened.

"And I Apparated to the village. I walked the rest of the way."

"You walked? Malfoy, it's miles."

"I need to apologise."

"You could have just sent an owl."

"No, I couldn't."

Harry's expression softened, just barely, but it was enough to send a flood of adrenalin thundering through Draco's body. Harry moved aside.

"Come in, Malfoy."

At his words, Draco had to restrain himself from dancing for joy, and instead followed the other man down the hall.

If Draco had ever seen the Burrow, he would have found Riverview reminiscent of the Weasleys' home. It was less chaotic, but it had the same warm, comfortable atmosphere. Worn, polished floorboards were covered with a patchwork of rugs, the furniture was mismatched and piled with cushions and blankets. The walls were festooned with moving photographs, chiefly featuring various members of the Weasley clan, although Hermione was visible in several (mostly making disapproving faces at the rude gestures Ron was directing at Draco), and Teddy Lupin appeared in a great many of them, too. Draco recalled reading that Harry had formally adopted his godson after Aunt Andromeda had died. He stared at a photograph of Teddy aged about eleven, dressed in his Hogwarts uniform and an embarrassed expression, standing on Platform 9 3/4. Draco was interested to note that the boy had a hint of the sharp features Draco himself had inherited from the Black family (although they were easy to overlook beneath the shock of bright blue hair).

A basket of quinces on the large, oblong dining table filled the air with their honeyed, floral scent. It was all a striking contrast to Draco's own flat, for which the only possible description was 'utilitarian'. By the time they reached the kitchen, Draco was fully anticipating copper pans, and herbs hung up to dry. He was not disappointed, although the sheer abundance of produce surprised him. There seemed to be food everywhere; herbs hung from the beams in bundles, along with plaits of garlic, there was a row of pumpkins perched on top of a Welsh dresser, and there were baskets of fruit and vegetables everywhere.

A vast pot bubbled on the stove, filling their air with steam (more quince, Draco surmised from the sharp smell). Harry watched as Draco stared around him.

"Not quite to your taste, I imagine."

"It's marvellous." Draco couldn't think of anything else to say, and it seemed to be enough, because Harry relaxed a bit and almost smiled.

"Hmm. Are you hungry?"

Draco hadn't really thought about it, but suddenly his stomach growled audibly and that did make Harry smile.

"I wasn't expecting company, so I'm afraid there's only pie for dinner."

The smell that wafted out of the oven as Harry opened it made Draco's mouth water. Only pie? What Harry pulled out of that oven could not be described as 'only' anything. It was glorious: crisp, flaky pastry (homemade, if Draco wasn't mistaken) burnished by egg glaze and baked to a perfect golden brown. Harry sat it on an iron trivet to cool while he went to the pantry to fetch a bottle of wine. While he was gone, Draco leant over the pie, taking deep breaths of the delicious, savoury smell and trying to identify its contents. Harry caught him at it when he returned with the wine.

"Bunny." He said with a grin. "The little bastard was eating my veggies."

Draco had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined sitting down in Harry's kitchen, drinking wine and eating homemade rabbit pie. The pie delivered on the promise of its smell; it was deliciously rich, the rabbit unctuously tender and the gravy flavoured with herbs and studded with fat, juicy prunes, the whole encased in the perfect, buttery pastry. Harry laughed out loud when Draco unashamedly licked the plate. After they'd eaten their fill, Harry took the leftover pie to the fridge, talking over his shoulder to Draco as he rummaged around inside.

"I'm afraid you've missed the gooseberry ice-cream, Teddy ate the last of it before he went to school. Hmm. Oh, there's some honeycomb in the cupboard."

Harry came back to the table bearing a plate on which sat an uneven chunk of honeycomb. Draco stared as Harry broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth, wax and all. Draco followed suit, trying to remember the last time he'd eaten honey like this. The wax was bland and hard against his tongue and tasted only tantalizingly of honey, until he crushed against the roof of his mouth. The comb burst open, flooding his mouth with honey. Draco shut his eyes. Even the best stuff he could obtain in London was inferior to this. He sucked the last of the honey out of the wax and let it roll across his tongue before he swallowed it. He took the squashed wax and put it on the side of the plate.

"Where on earth did you get that from?"

"From the hive." Harry gestured vaguely towards the back door.

Draco rested his chin on his hand and watched Harry lick honey off his fingers, completely enchanted. "The hive?"

Harry smiled, and stood up, gathering dishes. "Yeah, well, it's the best way to make sure the fruit trees are all pollinated."

"Fruit trees?" Draco followed Harry to the sink, admiring his denim-clad arse as he piled up the dishes and set a washing-up charm on them. Draco was not the swooning type, yet here he was, weak at the knees at Harry's kitchen sink.

"Harry, I'm sorry I was such as arse, I ..."

Harry's kiss prevented him from completing the sentence. His mouth tasted of wine and honey. Draco forgot to breathe until Harry pulled away.

"It's all right," he murmured, "I had an ... illuminating ... chat with Pansy."

He pressed his mouth against Draco's again, his hot, slippery tongue flicking over Draco's lips before thrusting deep into his mouth.

Through the fog of pleasure, Harry's words sank into Draco's brain. He broke the kiss, trying to look cross and failing utterly. "Oh yes? And what did dear Pansy have to say?"

Harry chuckled. "That you're an arse."

Draco suspected that Pansy had in fact given Harry a detailed explanation of Draco's many and various hang-ups about relationships, and about Harry, but he decided that he didn't much care.

"She also said that I shouldn't succumb to your wiley Slytherin charms too readily, and that a bit of begging would do you good."

"That little bitch, I'll ... "

Harry just laughed.

"Don't worry, I've no intention of making you beg for anything, the look on your face when I opened the door was enough. Pansy is always telling me that I'm too forgiving, and that my friendship with her is absolute proof. Apparently I let people take advantage of me all the time."

"As I recall, Potter, it was you who took advantage of me."

It was a risk, bringing up the subject of their previous, disastrous encounter, but to Draco's relief Harry merely laughed, and pulled him close for another kiss.

Kissing Harry was much, much better sober (paradoxically, it made him feel a bit drunk, although that may have been the two glasses of wine and the sudden lack of blood supply to his head). Harry pulled him closer and slid his arms around Draco's neck, his fingers stroking the skin just where the pale hair curled, making Draco shiver blissfully. Part of him wanted the kissing to go on forever, sweet and gently insistent, with the solid warmth of Harry's body pressed against him. Another part of him wanted, rather urgently, to dispense with the kissing in favour of more vigorous pursuits, and at moments like these, that part of him was the part making the decisions. Draco groaned softly into Harry's mouth and rocked his hips, their straining erections rubbing together through their trousers, and oh, the friction was delicious and maddening and not nearly enough.

Harry gasped as Draco slipped his hands under the frayed hem of his shirt and lightly touched the bare skin of his belly, tracing the trail of hair down to where it disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. Draco's hands shook with need and disbelief as he unbuckled Harry's belt and tugged it free. The buckle clattered on the polished wooden floor. He unfastened Harry's jeans, and Harry wound his fingers in Draco's hair.

The kiss became deeper, and more frantic. Their teeth clacked together as they abandoned all pretence of finesse. Draco whimpered. They were wearing far too many clothes, and he was consumed by a desperate need to feel as much of Harry's bare skin against his own as possible; to touch every inch of Harry's sturdy body with his hands; to taste Harry's warm, salty skin; and to feel Harry's hot, hungry mouth somewhere other than on his own.

There was a flurry of movement, of scrabbling fingers and gasping breaths, as they wrangled their clothes off. Then, oh, then everything was hands stroking over heated skin, and wandering tongues, and nibbling teeth, and the tart smell of simmering quinces, and groans. Harry bent his head to flick one of Draco's nipples with his tongue. It felt unbelievably hot and wet and Draco let out an undignified wail that ended in a choking sob when Harry's hand closed around his aching cock and squeezed. Draco felt his knees buckle and had to prop himself up on the bench top as Harry left a trail of burning kisses down his torso, each kiss leaving a cooling damp spot on Draco's flushed skin. By the time Harry was on his knees, Draco's whole body was trembling, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the counter. Harry's warm breath gusted across the violet head of Draco's cock. Green eyes looked up into his, and Harry grinned, wickedly. Draco stopped breathing. Harry's pink, glistening tongue darted out, teasing the very tip of Draco's throbbing erection.

"Fuck, Harry. Please, oh, please ..." Draco was unsure why he was whispering. Harry planted a wet, hot kiss that almost engulfed the head of his prick. Draco moaned helplessly "Please, please, please, please, mmm!"

Harry took a little more into his mouth this time. Draco felt dizzy with lust and lack of oxygen. The rest of the world paled into insignificance, the only thing that mattered was Harry's teasing mouth. Draco was breathing in shallow panting gasps, looking down at Harry's dark head as it moved back and forth. He took Draco deeper each time until, at last, he didn't pull back. Draco watched as his cock disappeared between Harry's lips and nearly came when he felt the other man's throat constricting around him as Harry fought to suppress his gag reflex.

Harry pulled back, sucking hard and rubbing the underside with the flat of his tongue, before settling into a rhythm that had Draco teetering on the brink of orgasm after only a few minutes, his vocabulary dissolving into an incoherent babble: "Merlin, Harry! Ah, yes! Oh, god, please don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, fuck, yes! Aaah, Harry I'm ... ah ... oh, fuck, I'm coming ..." even the babble trailed away into a howl as Draco saw stars, his climax rolling through him in wave after wave of hot, sweet pleasure. Harry kept sucking and swallowing until the last ripple of Draco's orgasm had subsided, then stood up. The intensity of Draco's orgasm left him feeling slightly stoned. Harry kissed him again, his mouth warm and pliant and tasting of come.

He kissed Draco deeply, then nuzzled his neck as he manoeuvred him over to the dining table and hoisted him up onto its polished wooden surface. Harry pushed Draco's thighs apart, his thick, hard cock nudging at Draco's belly. Draco leaned back with a dopey grin on his face.

Harry growled softly in his ear, "I really, really want to fuck you, Draco."

"Mmm ..." Draco wrapped his legs around Harry's hips, pulling him closer. Harry's chuckle turned into a moan when Draco reached between them and started lazily stroking his cock.

"Oh, god, that's ... ah ... good ... mmm ... lube! We need lube, and fuck, I need to feel my cock inside you ..."

Harry scanned the kitchen for something slippery. His eyes lit upon the butter dish, still sitting on the table from lunch, and he grinned. Lifting the lid, he dug his fingers into the soft, yellow butterpat, his skin glistening where the butter started to melt straight away. Harry slicked his cock with the slippery handful then slid two greased fingers, after a bit of fumbling, into Draco's tightly furled arsehole. Draco gasped at the welcome intrusion and tilted his hips to allow Harry better access, his cock twitching with renewed interest against his thigh. Then Harry was pressing the blunt, buttery head of his cock against the taut band of muscle. The resistance gave way and Harry slid part way inside, his brow furrowed as he struggled for control.

Draco whimpered in mingled pain and pleasure. Merlin, Harry's cock felt huge; Draco's arse burned and ached as Harry eased himself deeper, but god, it felt good as it stretched him wide and oh, fuck, rubbed against the sensitive button of his prostate.

Harry let out a strangled gasp. "Fuck, Draco, you're so tight, oh, god, that's good! That's so fucking good!"

Harry halted once he'd buried himself completely, making Draco squirm. "Don't stop, for pity's sake! Fuck me! Ah, fuck me!"

Harry complied with a groan, thrusting into Draco over and over and over again. A trickle of melted butter made its way down Harry's leg. Draco arched his back, his cock finding a new lease on life as Harry hit his prostate again and again. Oh, god, it was glorious. Draco dug his shirt fingernails into Harry's back, urging him on with cries of "harder!" and "faster!" and "more!" until Harry threw back his head of bellowed as he came. Draco felt a burst of wet heat inside him.

Mingled come and melted butter dripped onto the floor as Harry pulled himself out. He laid his head on Draco's shoulder, his breathing quick and unsteady. Draco, sated and drowsy, closed his eyes and drifted in the stillness, wrapped in Harry's warm arms and the soapy clanking of the charmed washing up, and the smell of sweat and butter and quinces.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Draco woke up in Harry's empty bed the next morning, amidst sheets that were rumpled and warm and smelled like sex and lavender. His half-asleep brain automatically went into work-mode, thinking about shopping and prep and whether the bookings had been staggered properly, and his body started to wind up around the familiar ball of tension in his gut. He sat up abruptly, heart thudding, then remembered. He had taken Time Off.

What a foreign concept.

He suppressed a sickening wave of anxiety at the thought of his kitchen running without him on a Saturday night. Blaise would keep them in line, and if he couldn't, then abject fear of Draco's wrath surely would. Trying to quell his restlessness, he got out of bed and pulled on his trackpants, then went to the broad bay window. The view spread out below looking like a painting, all rolling patchwork fields crisscrossed by hedgerows and fences, dotted with trees and the occasional farmhouse and bisected by the winding curve of the river from which Harry's cottage home took its name. It really was quite beguiling, bathed in the clean, yellow light of the early morning.

From downstairs came the muffled clatter and sizzle of breakfast being cooked, accompanied by the enticing smell of bacon and coffee. Draco's stomach growled. There were many hours and quite a lot of physical exertion between him and his last meal. The memory of rolling Harry over in the wee small hours and the resulting slow and dreamy half-asleep sex made Draco's mouth curl into a smile and his cock stir to life. He followed the beckoning sounds and smells downstairs, intending to bail Harry up in the kitchen again, but something pulled him up short at the kitchen door.

Harry was shuffling around wearing ugly plaid boxer shorts and a baggy T-shirt, singing quietly to himself as he checked the grilling bacon, popped bread into the toaster, and stirred a pan of scrambled eggs. Draco leaned against the doorjamb. He couldn't recognise the tune, but something about Harry's breathy singing made his heart beat a little bit faster. He couldn't understand it. He'd once dated a tenor who sang arias in the shower every morning, and all Draco had done was turn on the hot tap in the kitchen to hurry the git up.

That strange sense of contentment was back. Draco was reminded of a Muggle adage, something about a man hitting his head against a brick wall. Another man comes along and asks him why he's hitting his head against the wall, and he replies that he does it because it feels so good when he stops. That's what being with Harry felt like, Draco decided; like he'd been hitting his head against a brick wall all his life, and Harry was the blissful feeling of finally stopping.

Harry ducked out the back door and came back after a moment with a couple of tomatoes, which he sliced and slid under the grill.

"Morning, Draco."

The smile was still there, curving Harry's really quite beautiful lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes, but his voice was wary. It made Draco's stomach clench uncomfortably, and he recalled that this was partly why he avoided emotional entanglements. He loathed how out of control his see-sawing feelings made him. When they sat down for breakfast Harry relaxed a bit, and there was no trace of reserve by the time they set a washing-up charm and took their coffee onto the back porch. Draco realised that Harry had been waiting for him to turn back into an arsehole, like some horrible parody of Cinderella. He supposed it would just take time to prove himself, and he hoped that Harry would be willing to give him that time.

 

~o~O~o~

 

That night, Draco was back at work, to the general dismay of his kitchen brigade and in spite of Blaise's disapproval. The maître d' had cornered Draco in the drystore just after he'd arrived.

"I thought we agreed you weren't coming back until you had your shit together," he'd hissed.

Draco had bristled momentarily, but it was hard to maintain his indignation after he'd had such a good day. "We did. I have. Now shut up and get back to work," Draco had snapped, but his heart wasn't in it and Blaise could tell.

"In one day? I'm impressed. So what happened?"

Draco grinned, in what he hoped was a convincingly wolfish way. "Well, let's just say that he cooked me breakfast."

This was their long-standing code for a one-night stand with a morning encore, and mercifully it put Blaise off the scent. He laughed and left to get back to the floor.

It wasn't actually a lie, since Harry really had cooked him breakfast. It had consisted of home-cured bacon, tomatoes, toasted home-baked bread, and the best scrambled eggs Draco had ever eaten, courtesy of the fat, happy hens that lived at the bottom of the garden. Draco had almost wept. Harry had piled this sublimity onto a couple of plates and just for a moment Draco had felt disdainful, thinking of the elegant breakfasts he'd prepared for a chosen few, or those he ate at trendy cafes some mornings, all grilled haloumi and smoked salmon, and always with some sort of chive involvement. It was only for a moment, though, and then Draco had had his Epiphany.

This is what Harry had meant in his review. Draco's food was beautiful; made to exacting standards from the best ingredients money could buy, flawlessly presented, and completely meaningless. Harry's cooking was real food, food for the soul. It didn't come from providores or suppliers or warehouses, it came from sun and dirt and water and hard work. Draco's food was all about precision and aesthetics, an exquisite celebration of expensive quality and perfectly balanced flavours and textures. Harry's food celebrated life, nothing more and nothing less, life with your feet in the earth and the sun on your back.

Draco, whose fear of commitment had been the governing principle of his relationships (or lack thereof) all his life, was overwhelmed at that moment by a deep and desperate concern that Harry was going to come to his senses any moment and send Draco packing.

He didn't. Instead, he announced that no-one ate for free at Riverview and took Draco on a tour of the smallholding; feeding the cows and the pigs, visiting the chickens and being menaced by the geese. Harry showed Draco the orchard and the vegetable garden, and pointed out the poly tunnel where he raised seeds and grew most of his tomatoes and peppers. At some point Harry reached out and took Draco's hand with a small, hopeful smile, and Draco squeezed it reassuringly (although whether he was reassuring Harry or himself, he wasn't sure).

Later on, Draco sat on the kitchen bench and watched as Harry measured out the strained quince liquor that had been simmering the evening before, then added several pounds of sugar and set it back to boiling on the stove. How enchantingly arcane, thought Draco, to be making quince jelly.

After lunch, Draco began to twitch and fidget. He couldn't concentrate on what Harry as saying about the ethical treatment of animals, and the evils of so-called 'scientific' farming. He couldn't focus on anything, and by three o'clock had actually broken out in a sweat. He knew what it was; he needed to get back to his kitchen; he always got like this when he was away for too long (one of the many reasons he so rarely took Time Off). For the first time, however, he felt torn. He was terribly afraid that if he left the cottage the spell would be broken, that he'd lose whatever new, strange thing this was between himself and Harry. When he cast a quick Tempus charm for perhaps the hundredth time, Harry burst out laughing.

"Merlin's pants, Draco, you're like an addict! Go to work, you'll drive me mental if you keep twitching like that!"

Draco was startled, to say the least. He'd come to expect sulking, or threats, or perhaps a spot of emotional blackmail, but certainly not this good-natured acceptance of his workaholism. He hesitated, thinking this might just be a prelude to a squabble.

"You sure? I just, they've already done one night without me, and ..."

Harry had waved his hand dismissively, chuckling.

"Go on, back to your restaurant. As long as you promise to come back."

Harry's eyes belied the light, laughing tone in his voice. Draco was so astonished that he quite forgot to answer for a moment. Harry wanted him to come back! Wanted him to promise to come back, as though it was Draco bestowing some great kindness and not the other way around. Harry wanted him. Beautiful, odd Harry, with his pies and his vegetable garden, and his herbs drying in the kitchen ... Miraculously forgiving Harry, who was willing to pardon Draco for being an arsehole for twenty-two years, who had welcomed Draco into his home and fed him and shagged him in spite of everything, and whose face now fell, eyes darkening, as Draco failed to answer him.

"I see. Well ..." Harry made to get up from the table, but Draco shook himself out of his reverie in time to grab Harry's hand.

"No! Shit! Yes! Harry, wait!"

Harry sat back down, the distrust on his face like a ligature around Draco's heart. Draco scrabbled desperately in his brain to find the words he wanted and string them together. He had another Epiphany, one that made sense of the last few decades of his life and it was suddenly so obvious that he felt like a complete tit for not realising it sooner. He blushed, and took a deep breath, and flung himself from the precipice.

"Of course I'll come back! I've been in love with you since I was eleven!" he blurted. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Thankfully, admitting to carrying that torch for so long seemed to be enough, because a smile broke over Harry's face like sunlight through clouds. There was more of the lovely, lovely kissing, then Harry shooed him off the work, claiming that Draco was distracting him from the important business of making ketchup from the poly-tunnel tomatoes.

And now, here he was, gearing up for another Saturday night at Pomegranate, with the familiar thrum of the kitchen humming in his veins. Knives flashed in the harsh fluorescent light, pans clanked, plates rattled, and the docket printer began to chatter and whir. Draco felt the pressure begin to build, settling on his shoulders and tightening in his belly. Feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart on the black rubber floor, he called orders and found a familiar savage glee in the way his voice made the brigade jump and hustle.

They were still desperately understaffed after Draco's purge, but the cooks that were left pulled together admirably. Everyone worked their stations with grim single-mindedness, slamming out meals at a cracking pace. The only incident of violence happened when an idiotic kitchenhand got in Draco's way trying to restock the plate-warmer as Draco was plating up entrees for two separate tables. Draco kicked him out of the way. The kitchenhand squeaked and scampered back to the sink. Well, really.

Draco had brought with him a slab of Harry's quince paste, which had been included with the cheese selection to the general acclaim of the diners, and which Draco hoped was only a taste of things to come. While they were feeding the pigs, Harry had mentioned a deal he'd made with a local café, supplying them with bacon, eggs and seasonal soups made from the bounty of Riverview, in return for a combination of ready cash, a cup of coffee whenever he was in the village, and access to the commercial kitchen out-of-hours to allow him to process his increasing quantities of produce. Draco had seized upon this idea, and had persuaded Harry to supply Pomegranate with home-cured prosciutto and spicy chorizo sausage, and even as he worked, Draco was having mouthwatering visions of an entrée consisting of Riverview pork belly and seared scallops.

Draco rode the crest of the service rush, revelling in the speed of his flying hands and his brain as it worked three steps ahead; in the clattering hum of a kitchen running well with its captain back in control; and in the knowledge that Harry was waiting for him at Riverview.


End file.
